Journeys of a Space Cadet
by The Illustrious Crackpot
Summary: DUCK DODGERS Ever wondered why Earth and Mars share evaporation technology? Why Dodgers and the cadet are the only animals? Join draftee Harrison as he enters the world of the 24th and a half century.


_Journeys of a Space Cadet_

(The Illustrious Crackpot)

The worst day of my life was when I got drafted.

Even in the 24th 1/2 century it's still as bad a thing as in the ages past. Serving in the Protectorate is one of the biggest and lowest-paying positions this side of the Horsehead Nebula, at least besides accounting. I personally got the dreaded draft notice one day at school after getting a high score in virtual P.E., like several other kids. My mother was happy, though. I figure after thirteen years with me in the house she couldn't wait to get rid of me.

My first day on the job began with the head office. I recall remembering that it was a Saturday because of the winking neon signs smattered about the floating roadways proclaiming so much. The Protectorate headquarters was easily the largest building in the area—even though the other structures were taller than even the legendary "Sears Tower"—and it had a sort of gigantic globe as the upper quarter of the building. That globe was where I was unfortunately headed.

It felt awkward walking into this huge building in street clothes, especially with so many important-looking people around dressed in the common full-body suits of space explorers and protectors. The lobby was thickly carpeted with bright colors everywhere you looked, as well as having several robots hanging out at the lobby desk. Clutching my draft slip, I headed for one of the elevators at the back of the room. Luckily one of them was completely unoccupied, so I headed into that one. I'd rather not have to talk to people, not after my drafting.

"**Floor please?**" inquired the elevator's voice circuits.

I was a little flustered, having realized that I had no idea which floor I wanted. "Um," I floundered, "C-could you take me to the office of, uh," I opened my draft slip, scanning the contents wildly, "um, Dr. I.Q. Hi?"

To my relief the elevator obviously knew where that was, as it closed its doors and began moving upward. "**That is floor number 473, sir. Please settle in for the ride.**"

"Uh, um...thanks."

There being no stops before mine, the elevator made it up in about three, four secondds tops. When the doors slid open again, I stepped hesitantly out into the most amazing room I'd ever seen.

It wasn't so much an office as a _laboratory_. There was all sorts of weird computer tech I'd never _seen_ before, including a huge, three-dimensional projector spewing out skewered images of contemporary politicians and a whole bunch of uncompleted weapons. There was also what looked like a new version of the antiquated tape recorder, and, in the back, a sort of vase-shaped glass chamber about twice as big as me and rounded off at the top. This chamber was connected to a large mess of wiring and securely grounded to the floor, giving me the idea that it was one of the only working pieces of machinery in the entire room.

"Sir?"

I turned sharply, tearing my eyes away from the equipment. I noticed for the very first time that amid these machines was a desk, and that behind the desk was a man. Dr. I.Q. Hi himself.

Even while he was sitting down I could tell that he was a relatively short man—though still taller than me. He gave me the impression of being squashed; his head was almost as wide as his shoulders with absolutely no neck whatsoever. It made you think that one day a giant had stuck down his thumb on him and pressed hard, smushing his white lab coat and all. He had a very large nose and sunken eyes as well as only wisps of curly auburn hair about the sides and back of his head. However, it was his headgear that intrigued me most—he had on his head what appeared to be an upturned bowl with a lightbulb stuck on top. And—get this—the lightbulb was _lit_.

He seemed unperturbed to see me, however, and he asked in a deep voice, "What do you want, young man?"

I suddenly got about as flustered as I had been in the elevator and nearly forgot why I was here. "I—uh, eh, that is"—Suddenly I pulled my draft slip out of the pocket I had inadvertently placed it in, and opened it—"I-I've been drafted, sir, and, uh, the s-slip said to go to your office."

I suddenly got about as flustered as I had been in the elevator and nearly forgot why I was here. "I—uh, eh, that is"—I pulled my draft slip out of the pocket I had inadvertently placed it in, and opened it—"I-I've been drafted, sir, and, uh, the s-slip said to go to your office."

The doctor leaned back in his chair, utterly relaxed. It was at this point that I realized that he had rubber gloves on both arms that went almost all the way up to his shoulders, a bit of a peculiar fashion statement. "Ah, yes, a draftee," the doctor mused, almost to himself. "I like to inspect those myself—force of habit." He bent forward a little to grab a piece of paper off the top of a small stack and paused, pen at the ready. "Name?"

"Harrison Martz."

"Age?"

"Thirteen—just about."

"Hair?"

"Black—short."

"Height?"

"Four-foot-eleven—also short."

"Eye color?"

"Light brown."

"Nationality?"

I was confused for a moment. "Earth?"

I.Q. chuckled and leaned back in his chair again. "That was a trick question," he explained. "As you probably know, all the nations banded together as one entity under the Earth long before you were born...long before I was born, in fact. If someone doesn't know that and answers the question 'none', we whisk 'em out the door faster than they can say 'the Protectorate'. But you passed."

Inwardly I groaned. I had been hoping that the doctor would not see me fit to join the Protectorate. Outwardly, however, I kept a straight face. I.Q. eyed me closely for a moment. Then he said slowly, "I wonder which captain you would be best suited for..."

I jumped in surprise, nearly losing my balance. Steadying myself on the corner of his desk, I gasped, " 'Captain', sir?"

"Well," began I.Q., "you're just a new recruit—a bit young at that—and I can't have you running around without someone to watch you—" I.Q. stopped, and his eyes lit up as his thoughts appeared to be far away, "—or vice-versa..."

I was confused again, but didn't mention it. This might be another "test" thing. "So I'm a cadet, then, sir?"

He turned around and glanced at me. "Yes, you are...but first you've got to look it." He turned away from me and began rifling past bits of machinery until he got to a wardrobe of sorts. "Sorry the office is such a mess," he called back over his shoulder, "but the technological research plant had to store their equipment _somewhere_ while the room is being reconstructed..." he paused and stood up, his eyebrows knotting. "Don't ask." Suddenly he lifted a box up out of the wardrobe. "Here it is."

He turned back to me and opened the box, holding up two uniforms. They were both one-piece suits with correspondingly matching gloves, belts and boots. However one was a base pink with purple matches and the other had a light blue base with deep red matches. I looked at I.Q. blankly, as he just stood there with the uniforms in his hands.

"Well, it's one size fits all," he began lamely, and then realized the cause of my non-comprehension. "Oh!" he cried, and started the explanation. "Well, when the Protectorate first started, we only had this uniform"—he indicated the pink one—"to give our cadets. However, when some deemed it, eh, how shall I put this, _effeminate_, we decided to create this _other_ option of uniform for cadets." He indicated the light blue.

"Why didn't they just discontinue the pink?" I asked.

I.Q. seemed to blush a little. "Well, uh, some people still found it _charming_ and _quaint_ that such _traditional_ outfits be kept in use, and, um," he obviously was not comfortable with the topic, "so, uh, which one do you want?"

"Blue and red, _definitely_," I said without hesitation, and he handed the gear over to me and directed me to a side room where I could change. Once I came out wearing my uniform, gloves, belt, boots and all, I.Q. began to tell me about life in the Protectorate.

"So, Harrison," he began, crossing his arms, "do you know why the Protectorate was founded?"

This was something I _did_ know. "Yes, sir," I answered enthusiastically. "After the first major war with Mars, the Protectorate was established to try and ensure that such a thing would not happen again."

I.Q. relaxed. "You're absolutely right, that was why we were begun. Today, though, our duties mostly involve simply keeping the Earth—and sometimes Mars as well—safe. Oh," he cut in, "and please drop the 'sir'. Even though this is supposedly a formal position, we try to maintain a certain level of familiarity. You can just call me I.Q."

"Ok, si—" I replied, "I mean, OK, I.Q."

"And now the captain-cadet relationship," he continued. "Though the cadet has an inferior rank to his (or her) captain and must take orders from them, we have equality as one of our biggest priorities. The captain and cadet should have a certain kind of friendship, so therefore if the partnership is not working out we can either reassign the cadet to someone else or transfer the cadet to being a solo operative—it all depends on whether or not they're ready for it.

"As you may also know, the Protectorate assigns every captain and solo operative a spaceship." When I nodded, he continued, "In the captain's case, the ship is not only formatted with controls and weapons and the like, but also with _living quarters_."

Comprehension dawned on me. "So you're saying—"

"—Yes," he finished for me. "The cadet and captain live together on the ship to elevate the feeling of closeness and to get them to learn to get along."

In spite of myself, I was getting excited. "Sir—I.Q.," I blurted, "What sort of person is my captain going to be?"

I.Q. rose and smiled. "We're going to meet him now." He beckoned to me and started to walk off. "Come on."

I had expected to go back to the elevator, but instead I was being led to the opposite end of the room. I stopped dead when I realized that there was no door or anything this way—just the big, glass vase-looking thing.

"Um...I.Q.?"

He stopped too, and turned to look at me. "What is it, Harrison?"

I was feeling kind of foolish and embarrassed, but I plowed right on. "Well, s—I.Q., it's just that"—I lowered my voice to a whisper—"the elevator is _that_ way."

I.Q. seemed unperturbed. "Yes, I know that."

"But—" I continued waveringly, "there's no _door_ in that direction. How do we leave _this_ way?"

With a slightly confused expression on his face, I.Q. waved a hand at the tube. "Through this."

I almost exploded with bewilderment. "That's just a fancy giant flowerpot! How can we leave through that?"

He looked at me for a long moment. Finally, he said, "You've never heard of evaporation, have you?"

I was surprised and a little confused. "Well, y-yes I have, si—Well, it's when water—"

"Not _that_ kind of evaporation!" I.Q. snapped, tossing his hands in the air. "Oh Copernicus, what do they _teach_ kids today?" He just stood there breathing heavily for a moment then, considerably calmed, he explained, "About five years ago the Protectorate stumbled on the secret of a machine that could disassemble your individual molecules at one location and reassemble them in another almost instantaneously. We called this process 'evaporation' because of its similarity to that specific stage of the water cycle."

I was interested. "Scientology in the 24th 1/2 Century" was my favorite subject. "How did the Protectorate find out how to do it?" I asked, wishing I had a piece of paper to take notes on.

I.Q. fidgeted and seemed a little uneasy. "Well," he said in a low voice, "I guess I can tell you, but it's kind of a tender subject here at the Protectorate." He took a deep breath, and muttered, "The truth is, the Martians had invented evaporators long before the Earth had even _contemplated_ the idea of such transportation. So when the Protectorate _did_ manage to discover 'evaporation', there was a lot of...controversy. There were many widespread rumors that we had stolen the secret from the Martians, which were thought to be proven true because of how well our receptors reacted to theirs. Of course, the Martian Queen was very angry." He noticed my expression and hurried on, slightly flustered. "N-not because we stole 'evaporation'—because we _didn't_. It was just one of those utter coincidences no one can fathom, like why the Martians speak the same language we do and how almost the exact same strain of irritating but polite gophers lived on Earth long ago and are apparently now indigenous to Mars. It's a freak of science."

Still appearing a little agitated, I.Q. quickly changed the subject. "Eh—so, shall we 'evaporate'?" he offered

"Sure." I stepped through a little door into the capsule. However, I was still curious. "But if I'm right in assuming that all the Protectorate have evaporation receptor machines—"

"—and you _are_ right—" I.Q. affirmed, making no move toward the tube.

"—then how do you control which one you end up in?" I asked. "And how do you avoid coming out in one of the Martian receptors?"

"With this," replied I.Q., tapping what looked like a holo-keyboard with several plasma buttons mounted on a stick.

He evidently noticed once more my failure to understand, and asked, "Just out of curiosity, have you ever seen the movie _Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure_? Well," he amended himself, "it was little before your time—heck, even before the _Protectorate's_, and it dates back about three-and-a-quarter centuries—"

"Oh, no," I answered quickly. "I've seen it." The old classics were my favorites, a preference that had alienated my peers at school. "Two teenagers with a time-traveling phone booth, right?"

"Yes, that's the one." I.Q. was obviously relieved that I knew about it—he must've also been ridiculed for watching such old, outdated, corny films like _The Matrix_. "Well, you know how Bill and Ted would have to dial a specific phone number for each era and location they wanted to reach?" He forgot himself for a moment and chuckled. "And then how they thought Socrates was pronounce 'So-crates'—" Remembering suddenly what he was _supposed_ to be talking about, he hurried on, "Well, that's what this is for. You key in a specific number code for whichever place you want to evaporate to."

He began to reach for the keypad, but my insatiable inquisitiveness stopped him dead once again. "But," I persisted, "if the Earth and Martian evaporators are so similar in design, wouldn't it also be probable that the Martian number codes for one place could correspond with the Earth codes for another place? How would you avoid that?"

I was afraid he'd get fed up with my interruptions, but I.Q. almost seemed to enjoy them. "Easily," he returned, swelling with pride at the knowledge. "When the Martians discovered that such a snafu was happening under their very—er, um, 'noses', they decided that neither Earth nor Mars would want one Protectorate captain meaning to evaporate to his mother's house ending up in the bathroom of a Martian ship—"

"That actually happened?" I interrupted, incredulous.

I.Q. turned bright red. "Well, uh, yes. About three times." He continued quickly, "Anyways, Earth and Mars had a meeting and decided that, to make things clear, Earth spaceship codes would be thirteen digits long and that Martian ones would be fifteen digits. Also, they'd do neutral territory-based, biannual comparison checks between area codes Earth used and area codes Mars used to make sure they weren't overly similar." I.Q. quickly glanced at what appeared to be a clock, then double-checked it with his own watch and grimaced. "We have to hurry up. I'm late for the 'Annual Star Trek Conven—', er, an important meeting." Handing me the suitcase I had brought from home but inadvertently left on the floor when I'd changed into my uniform, he typed in a series of numbers, quickly stepped into the chamber beside me and shut the door.

—**chapter—**

The sensation of evaporation was like nothing I ever felt before. It felt like I was _free_, floating in space as the universe rushed past me on both sides. I was unable to look anywhere but forward, towards a sphere of light that seemed to hurtle at me. I couldn't see myself or I.Q., or even my suitcase, but I could distantly feel all of them there with me. Exhilaration blossomed in my chest as I, _I_, _became_ the universe. Winging freely like a liberated bluebird, I _was_ space, I _was_ time, I _was_—

—There.

It was over far too soon. In the space of three seconds I appeared in another vase-shaped tube in another room. The room was dimly lit with just the evaporator and keypad in there, but I.Q. soon led me to another room through a well-concealed door.

The place was a _mess_. I was reminded forcefully of my room back home, except fifteen times _worse_. There were magazines, half-eaten bags of chips, video game systems—everything but the kitchen _sink_ was scattered haphazardly across the room. It was so messy, you could hardly see the blue carpet covering the floor. It was obviously the control room of a spaceship, because there were two copilots' seats near the head of the room. One of them was so covered in junk I at first mistook it for a continuation of the floor mess rather than a _chair_. The other seat was more clean than the first one, though, and the space around it seemed to indicate that someone had tried to clean up but soon abandoned the project as a lost cause. A few centuries back before species discrimination was banned, it would have been described as looking like a pig lived there.

And, apparently, a pig _did_ live there. I had sat down to try and get over the feeling of evaporation when in walked a _pig_. Before you get the feeling that I'm on a farm, let me remind you that back in the 20th century animal evolution sped up greatly and several species of animals simply stood up on their hind legs and started talking. Some of them even went straight to Hollywood—remember Bugs Bunny and Mickey Mouse?

Anyways, the pig-person walked in while I.Q. and I were just standing there. He was wearing a cadet's outfit like me, except he had chosen the other version—the pink one. He was shorter than I was—yes! Someone finally _was_ smaller than me!—and had as part of his uniform a sort of a head cap with an antenna on the top. And even considering the pig-discriminate expression I used before, it was evident that _this_ guy hadn't made the mess. Even _before_ he noticed me or I.Q., he began randomly picking things up and shelving them. Of course, when he looked up and saw us he went into overdrive and even made the place look almost neat before coming to a halt and saluting. "G-g-goo—Hello, doctor," he stuttered. "What brings you here?"

I.Q. stepped forward, gesturing for me to follow. I did so hesitantly. "Good day to you, cadet," I.Q. said, then looked around. "Where's Dodgers?"

"Oh, he's in the ba-b-ba-b—the ba-b—the lavatory," the cadet replied, and I realized that he was a natural stutterer rather than a conditional one. My heart went out to him immediately; I had a cousin with the same problem, only not as bad. He looked around I.Q. just then and noticed me standing behind the doctor. "And wh-who-who's this?" he inquired, smiling and giving a little wave.

"Cadet," I.Q. lead off, pushing me forward, "this is Harrison Martz. Harrison, this is cadet Porky Pig, your new coworker."

I shook Porky's hand, and he smiled. Stutter and all, he seemed like a really nice person. "N-ni-n-ni—nice to meet you, Harrison." He chuckled. "Can I c-c-c-call you Harry?"

"Sure," I replied, and smiled too. This guy's good cheer was infectious, and little by little my resentment for being drafted was ebbing away. "Can I call you Porky?"

He chuckled again. "F-fi-f-fine with m-m-m-m-m—OK."

I.Q. checked his watch. "Cadet, how long until Dodgers gets in here? I have a meeting to attend, and I want to introduce him to Harrison myself."

Porky glanced down at a digital clock near one of his feet. "Oh, he should be out in around thir-th-th-thir—thirty seconds. He went in about two minutes ago."

Sure enough, twenty-nine seconds later another new character entered my life. He was a duck, closer to my own height and covered with black feathers. He had on a captain's outfit (light blue-green bodysuit with greenish gloves, belt and boots), but I had no idea how he could have merited such a position. Even by the way he _carried_ himself I could tell he was the culprit for the disorder, though it _was_ no light evidence when he tossed a cardboard tube from a toilet paper roll onto a pile of junk. He was just about to slouch over to the messy chair when suddenly he jumped up with a cry. Apparently he had noticed I.Q., because he straightened like a stiff plank and saluted instantaneously. "I.Q.!" he floundered almost guiltily. The duck twitched in worry. "Ah, for what rea_th_son do I owe the plea_th_sure of thi_th_s vi_th_sit?" He spoke with a spitting lisp.

"Dodgers," reprimanded I.Q., checking his watch again, "I'm short on time and won't even comment on the awful mess. But while I'm here—Dodgers, this is Harrison, Harrison, your new captain Duck Dodgers."

I extended my hand, but the duck didn't even seem to notice me. "Another cadet!" he cried out indignantly, all formality forgotten. "One i_th_s _fine_, thank_th_s, and I don't need _more!_" He looked at me with something like disgust. "How old _i_th_s_ he anyway?" He fired off the questions without waiting for an answer. "What do you ex_th_pect _him_ to do for _me?_ _I'm_ the number one of thi_th_s _th_ship, thank you, and I don't need _th_some kid here who'_th_s probably a _th_smart alec who think_th_s he know_th_s better than _me_!"

Now, I'm not exactly what you'd call a social expert, but I believed that this Dodgers wasn't really getting off on the right foot with this partnership. I bristled. "Well," I started, putting my trunk down on the floor and advancing on him menacingly, "maybe I _am_ just a kid, but I can take care of myself _fine_, thanks."

To my astonishment, this Dodgers guy backed away from me in fright. I was so surprised, I lost my anger in that split second in favor of astonishment. He was turning out to be a most extraordinary person.

I.Q. continued the conversation, giving Dodgers an almost threatening look. "Well, Dodgers, I'm sure you'll get used to Harrison after a while. You'll have to teach him all you know about our weaponry and several other things, as he'll be staying on for a bit. Now," he glanced at his watch one final time, "I have to go to my...meeting. Good luck, Harrison."

He entered the evaporator room and keyed in a code, then stepped inside. As he left, I stood and brought my hand up in a salute. He smiled before he disappeared into thin air. I turned back to Dodgers and Porky. "Now, exactly where did you say my room was?"

—**chapter—**

The next three days seemed at the time to drag, but in retrospect it seems like they flew past before I could get a good look at them. My new roommate Porky showed me how to use the shipboard computer and fire missiles from the ship's arsenal. From Cap. Dodgers I learned how to shoot a laser space gun, fly an escape pod and sneak onto an enemy's ship to steal his energy core—this exercise caused a thirty-minute shipboard blackout. But I was having fun.

Have you ever heard of misleading first impressions? It's amazing how your perspective about a person can change in just three days. In my initial encounter with Cap. Dodgers, he seemed like a self-centered egotistic jerk. But very quickly I learned that there was much more to him than just that; for starters, he was completely clueless and hopelessly naïve. If he didn't understand something (a phenomenon that occurred often), he'd spew out a string of ideas to try and make it sound like he understood completely, and then he'd very innocently ask what the heck you were talking about. He was also incredibly incompetent and—I swear this is true—at one point he actually forgot how you unscrew the top of a jar of mayonnaise. I'm serious. Porky had to help him do it because I was too busy gasping for air during my laughing fit. But pretty soon I got to like my captain. It's an amazing thing when a vain, self-absorbed, incapable, screwball duck can still manage to be almost lovable.

On my fourth day as Dodgers's cadet, we got our first communication from I.Q. At the head of the ship—the control room—in front of the windshield displaying our outer surroundings, the TV-like VisiScreen crackled into life and showed the doctor's face. We all sprang up from our game of Go Fish (at which Cap. Dodgers was losing pretty badly) and saluted.

"Dodgers," I.Q. said, "I have an important task for you, on the behalf of the Protectorate." Cap. Dodgers immediately sat down and picked up his cards again. "_ARE YOU LISTENING?_" I.Q. called out threateningly.

My captain stood up again as quickly as if he'd sat on a blowfish. "Darn it," he muttered so only Porky and I could hear him, "I alway_th_s forget he can th_see _me on that thing." I chuckled, earning myself a venomous glance from Cap. Dodgers.

On the screen, I.Q. sighed irritably. "Your assignment is this," he continued, and the screen switched to a live black-and-white video feed. "I'm sorry about the quality," he apologized, "but we haven't yet gotten all the monitors to col—_DODGERS!_" We all jumped in surprise. "PUT AWAY THAT POPCORN! THIS IS _NOT_ A MOVIE!"

Guiltily Cap. Dodgers replaced the half-filled popcorn sack on top of our latest pile of junk.

"That's better," I.Q. went on, and the camera feeding us the video zoomed in. I could see now that the image was of a large, saucer-like, three-pronged spaceship hovering over an asteroid field. As we kept watching, a meteor hurtled directly at the ship. I felt a compulsive desire to cry out to the ship's pilot—either he didn't know the meteor was coming at him or he just wasn't taking evasive action. Whichever way, the pilot was a goner.

However, I was given a shock. Mere _seconds_ before the meteor would have hit the ship, a stream of light streaked out from the ship and captured the meteor, halting its progress and holding it captive. Then, to my further amazement, the meteor floated quite tamely off to the rear of the ship where a string of other large asteroids were hovering—all captured by the light. I.Q.'s voice explained the situation through the speakers. "This Martian commander has been ensnaring several large meteors in a magnetic field. It is believed by our esteemed correpondents that he is planning to herd them to the Earth, where he will then turn off his field. At that point, with the Earth's gravity in effect, these meteors will be pulled irresistibly down to Earth, bombarding it at many major cities." The camera focused in even further, getting a close-up shot of the spaceship and its pilot inside.

If I had thought that everybody I worked with had a height problem, I was probably right. Even on the screen it was evident that the Martian commander wasn't more than four feet high, four-and-a-half at the most. But it wasn't his _height_ that got me; it was the first time I'd actually _seen_ a Martian. Of course I'd heard about how they had extraordinarily dark skin, how they rarely had any hair and how the only distinguishing features on their faces—in fact, the _only_ features on their faces—were their _eyes_, but hearing and seeing are two different things. This guy had the aforementioned eyes-only characteristic, but his head was a completely round sphere as well. He also had a sort of a battle helmet which I guessed by the gray shade was green, and sticking out of the helmet was what looked like a scrub brush. Man, I thought, what is it with space officers and their wacky headgear?

"Oh no!" Cap. Dodgers cried out next to me, startling me out of my thinking. "Not him again!"

I looked around at him and pointed at the monitor. "You know this guy?" I inquired.

"Know him?" He all but laughed in derision. "He'_th_s my _th_sworn foe! Archenemy! Neme_th_si_th_s! In other word_th_s, I _don't_ get along well with him!"

Through the speakers, I.Q.'s voice chuckled. "Apparently the same goes for him, what with all the times you've tried to blow up each other's ships," he countered.

"Well, he th_started_ it!" Cap. Dodgers protested.

I grinned in spite of myself. Sometimes my captain acted all of five years old. But that was part of his unorthodox charm.

The monitor flipped back to I.Q. "I want you, Dodgers," he commanded, "to stop him before he can get any more meteors to let loose on Earth!"

"Alway_th_s _me_ against the little _th_squirt!" Cap. Dodgers complained, crossing his arms in his indignation. "Why can't you _th_send any of the _other _captain_th_s after him?"

"Because it's their coffee break," I.Q. replied matter-of-factly. "And nefarious plots wait for _no man's_ latte." And before Cap. Dodgers could give a smart response, the VisiScreen winked out into blackness.

Sighing, Porky walked over to the ship's computer. "M-m-might as well get going," he said, punching in the coordinates.

"Of cour_th_se!" my captain cried out, launching into an _almost_ impressive speech. "When the going get_th_s tough, the tough get_th_s going! And where the tough get going, the tough get Duck Dodger_th_s of the 24th 1/2 _th_Century!"

Following our usual custom, we ignored him in favor of another game of cards.

Before I knew it, the ship was hurtling at warp-speed towards the asteroid belt I.Q. had located our enemy at. Leaving the autopilot on, we sat back and started Go Fish again. Cap. Dodgers was just retrieving his card when the ship suddenly ground to a sharp stop. The cards flew everywhere and I flew along with them, smacking into the wall at the back of the room. I heard Cap. Dodgers and Porky likewise hitting it beside me, and within another split second came the unmistakable sound of the engines shutting down. I groaned, then peeled myself off the wall. I hurt like a ventriloquist's dummy who'd gotten stuck in a papermill. I was mostly OK though, and my comrades seemed so also. They were both standing, at least.

Porky was the first to speak. "Wh-wh-what happened?" he stammered.

Obviously Cap. Dodgers had recovered enough to employ his usual tact. "The _th_ship _th_stopped, _that_th_s_ what _happened!_"

I sighed. "He means _why_ did it _th_stop—I mean, stop," I replied irritably.

However, Porky was well on discovering the answer for himself. While I argued pointlessly with Cap. Dodgers, Porky was accessing the ship's database with frantic typing. A few moments later, he glanced up and announced, "We ca-c-ca-c-c-ca—we're unable to go farther into the asteroid field. The M-m-Martian's magnetic field could damage the ship if we went m-m-much more in this direction."

Cap. Dodgers didn't get it, as usual. "And...?" he prompted, a blank face.

I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. Porky took over for me, explaining, "We could lose essen-ess-essen—important parts of the ship to the magnetic pull and not only would he see us, we'd be unab-un-unab—not able to leave. This is the farthest we can g-go."

It was Cap. Dodgers's turn to groan. "Great! Ju_th_st great!" he cried, throwing his arms into the air. "The Martian _th_shrimp i_th_s only a few do_th_zen mile_th_s off, and we can't get any clo_th_ser to him than thi_th_s! Oh, the humanity! Oh, the Martianity! Oh, the femininity, ju_th_st for a change of pa_th_ce!"

He kept ranting and raving like that for a while, and I listened for a moment before an idea struck me. "Porky..." I started, thinking out loud, "you don't have to have a receptor at your destination to be able to evaporate to that point, right?"

Porky looked up quizzically. "Eh, n-n-noooo..." he answered.

"...And I know that there are codes for specific areas or ships for evaporation..."

"Y-yes..."

"...But is there some way to input a code for an area based on just how far away it is from your evaporator?" I finished. "I mean, theoretically—"

Porky's eyes lit up in comprehension and he leaped up onto his feet. "Yes! Th-the-th-there is!" he cried, practically swelled with happiness. "It's so brilliant I c-c-could—I could kiss you!"

I laughed. "Thanks but no thanks. But can you do it?" I quickly amended myself. "Uh, the evaporation-calculation bit, that is."

"Of course!" He was almost shouting now. "That was the first math course I p-p-passed in the Protectorate training school!" Porky then literally shook Cap. Dodgers out of his prattle. "Captain Dodgers! Captain Dodgers!" Porky yelled. "I know a way to get on the Ma-m-mar-m-ma-m—the other ship!"

Utterly exhilarated, Porky nearly skipped over to the manual controls, becoming simply a furious blur of activity. I honestly don't really know how he did it, but soon enough he had come up with a very impressive-looking figure on his single computer printout. Cap. Dodgers's jaw was hanging almost to the floor by the time Porky was done. Huffing and panting, Porky explained, "I d-d-doub-d-doub-do-doub—double-checked this figure and it's rea-re-r-rea-re—very accurate, so it should get us there." He sucked in a deep breath before going on. "H-h-how-however," he warned meaningfully, "We're all going to have to go in the same evaporation." Noticing the blank look shared by me and Cap. Dodgers, he went on. "I'm g-going to have to input this number because even a one-digit m-mistake could leave us han-h-hanging in deep space. So, we all have to squeeze into the evaporator at once. It'll be al-a-all"—he said darkly, "or _nothing_."

—**chapter—**

Moments later I was squashed against the back of the evaporator's chamber with Cap. Dodgers pressed square against my ribs. Porky was slowly and deliberately punching in the code on the other side of the glass, sweating in torrents and his eyes going wild. After a few painstaking seconds, he jumped away from the keypad with a strangled yell and ran for the door to the evaporator. I reached out and pulled him inside while Cap. Dodgers closed the door with his flat, webbed foot. A heartbeat later we disappeared.

The joy of evaporation paled in comparison to the anxiety knotted in my currently nonexistent stomach. This was my first mission, and I was going to be on the ship of an enemy who probably wouldn't think twice about disintegrating me with a laser pistol. My space gun quivered in my moleculed hand. Sure, I remembered all that stuff I'd learned from Cap. Dodgers about shooting a moving target, but I suddenly realized that I wouldn't be able to do it. I wouldn't even be able to shoot anywhere in the _direction_ of that little Martian guy. I tried to resign myself to the possibility by setting the issue in terms of black-and-white: I was the good guy, he was the evil bad guy...

It couldn't work. Even though this Martian commander was planning to launch a barrage of meteors at the Earth, I simply _couldn't_ see him as evil.

Before my philosophical thoughts had a chance to keep going, I tumbled out of evaporation onto a thinly carpeted, dusty-red floor. I winced as my chin thudded to a stop before the rest of me got there. I moaned, screwed up my eyes and opened them again. Yeah, all the dusty-red color proved that this was definitely a Martian ship—Mars is "the Red Planet", after all.

I raised myself up onto my elbows and looked around, seeing Cap. Dodgers and Porky do the same behind me. Hmm, I wondered. Where in this ship could we have evaporated to?

"Well well well," I heard an curiously toned voice cut in softly just above me, "It seems like we have visitors, Centurions." I heard something close to a sneer. "Isn't that...lovely."

I looked up. Leaning over me, his tennis-looking shoes in front of my nose, was the Martian commander from the video. He looked down at me with delighted scorn, but I could see that, out of all of us, he was happiest to have captured Cap. Dodgers.

It was then that I noticed that we were surrounded by dozens of levitating, laser-armed Martian robots.

_Note to self: Whenever evaporating to a foe's ship, _NEVER_ set coordinates for the room with the manual ship controls_.

Before I had time to recite a series of prayers under my breath, we were whisked by the Centurion robot guards into electrical glass containment capsules. The glass looked pretty easy enough to break, but even if you so much as _brushed_ it a huge electric shock coursed through your body. Deceptively deadly.

Our capsules were situated only about a dozen feet from the ship's control panel, which the Martian turned his back on in order to watch us. As soon as we were secured in our capsules, he began to speak.

"So, _brave_ Duck Dodgers and his little _underlings_ have come to _stop_ me," he gloated. "_Wonderful_ idea, but had you even managed to _successfully_ sneak on you would _still_ fail." Behind him through the ship's windshield we could see another meteor get caught in his magnetic trap.

"Th-th-there's no way you co-c-could bypass the Earth's shield!" Porky protested from inside his cell. I started, then flinched as I brushed the glass of the cell and received a minor shock. I'd forgotten about the shields. They prevented any Martian ship, or any other ships besides the Protectorate's, from entering Earth's atmosphere. There was no _way_ his plan would go through.

But apparently that assumption was wrong, because the Martian just chuckled darkly. "Did you actually _think_ that I would make such a brilliant plan and forget about the _shields?_" he taunted, pacing before our cells. His short legs were moving so fast they barely touched the floor. "I don't _need_ to enter the atmosphere," he went on, "because at _any_ distance, gravity will get my space minions on course. And the shield isn't designed to prohibit _meteors_."

The stark reality of that fact stood out like a sore thumb, and there was nothing we could do but give in to the truth. A beeping sound started up from nowhere, and I thought for a fleeting moment that it was my alarm clock, I was back home and I needed to wake up from this dream to go to school. ...But it was coming from the control panels of the ship, and as soon as the commander looked at it, he pushed a series of buttons and the beeping stopped. "I now have _more_ than enough rocks to crush the Earth," he announced almost casually, then sat down in a throne-like chair in front of his ship's computer. "I think I'll fly out of this myself, is that all right, Centurions?"

"Of course, Commander," the robots replied mechanically, but I think I heard one of them mutter, "I don't know why he_ pays_ us."

The commander seemed to like the sound of his own voice, because even as he turned back to his controls and flew the ship out of the asteroid field he continued talking. "With this delightfully _large_ army of space rocks mine to command," the Martian declared, "the Earth will bow before the power of _Mars!_"

I knew that curiosity had killed the cat, but seeing as I'd probably end up as space dust _anyways_, I decided to chance it. "Uh, Mister Martian Commander"—wouldn't you know it, none of these galactic deep-space characters wear nametags—"sir?"

The little guy was so surprised he jumped a few feet into the air, bumping his head on his VisiScreen. Cap. Dodgers and Porky both looked at me in shock also. By now they probably thought I'd lost my mind. Maybe I had. Even so, rubbing his head the commander answered, "Well, eh, yes?"

I was on _fire_. At the rate I questioned people, I'd end up knowing half the little-known truths in the universe before someone got it in their head to simply shoot me and get it over. "Well, uh, sir..." I started, then decided to abandon any attempt at gaining a name to address him by, "well anyways, you said that the Earth would scrape for _Mars_, not you specifically. You're doing this for your _planet_, then, rather than just yourself?"

Evidently the commander had put the ship on autopilot, because he was certainly free enough to stare at me in utter astonishment. Cap. Dodgers and Porky hadn't even so much as _blinked_ since my outburst. The Martian squirmed somewhat uncomfortably as if he wasn't sure he'd like where this conversation was going, but he managed to gather just about enough pride and power into his voice to proclaim, "Of-of course I'm doing it for Mars! I am the Queen's right-hand man, a-after all!"

"But Earth and Mars have sort of a peace treaty, as enforced on both sides by the Protectorate," I persisted. I noted that the robots were nudging each other and pointing at me, like I was an interesting source of entertainment. But I kept going. "Why would the Queen order you to do something in direct violation of that treaty?" As the commander fidgeted even more uncomfortably, the answer hit me like a fastball. "You," I began slowly as the robots pretended to be doing something else, "You're not doing this on orders, are you? The Queen doesn't know about this."

The commander looked down at his feet ashamedly, a movement I hadn't expected. The robots looked shocked as well—well, as shocked as robots without faces _can_ look. "Yes," the Martian admitted slowly. "I—well—with my continued failure to eliminate Duck Dodgers, I've sort of...lost favor with the Queen." He stared at his hands as he fiddled with them. "I-I thought that if I could launch an attack on the Earth and surprise her with the news, she'd, well...I'd be her first-rate commander again."

In this moment of weakness, I kind of felt sorry for him. Porky also wore an expression of some sort of pity. Cap. Dodgers, to no great surprise of anyone (even the robots), just didn't appear to get it.

A long second ticked by while the galaxy whipped past the ship at top speed. Then the moment was over and the commander was back on his feet, pacing before our capsules with as much malice as before. "But it's actually become a very _good_ thing that I have been unable to des-_troy_ you for so long, Dodgers," he gloated. "Now I shall have the pleasure of doing it after you have _intimately_ witnessed _my_ planet taking over _yours_." He began to stroke his..."chin"...in thought, staring at us wickedly. "Oh, perhaps I'll have you and your cadets serve as my Queen's _slaves_ for a few years before we _eliminate_ you all," he offered, then came up with _another_ suggestion and gave it to us. "Or perhaps we'll take over your _brain_ and make you head of the Martian troops during this next war, so you'll have the _personal_ joy of being done in by your former allies in the Protectorate. Or..."

As the commander carried on, about three-quarters of my compassion for him left me. I noted out of the corner of my eye that there were about three escape pods lining each side wall of the room. However, I wouldn't be able to reach them without being shot even if I COULD get out of this capsule. And I had to save both Cap. Dodgers and Porky before I could let myself escape. I'd have to figure out a plan—but how much time did I have left?

—**chapter—**

It took several more minutes before the ship began to slow down. In all that time the commander never paused in his soliloquy of several equally unpleasant ways to destroy my captain. Only when the ship ground to a full stop and the Earth was perfectly visible through the windshield and I could clearly see the satellites controlling its shield did the Martian break off his recitations. After double-checking our position on the ship's manual computer, he looked back at us with a particularly evil grin—uh, expression. Still wearing his malevolence perfectly, he punched up the VisiScreen monitor and it displayed the Earth in terrifying clarity. Sweat began to trickle down my spine. In all this time, I hadn't figured out any decent plans. Porky looked too panicked to be able to think of a way out, and Cap. Dodgers...well, no one really expected _him_ to spontaneously come up with a brilliant plan. Keying in a sequence on the controls, the Martian turned back to us with a triumphant air. "Now," he leered at us, "You will be able to witness the first act of a _marvelous_ war between Earth and Mars."

"You'll never get away with it, you Martian _th_shrimp!" cried Cap. Dodgers—the first words he'd said throughout the entire time.

"Oh, really?" the Martian observed. "I think I already _am_." He brought his hand up to push a specific button on the control panel—

"WAIT!"

This time the Martian commander glared at me with impatience rather than surprise at my cry. "What is it, Earth creature?" he demanded, raising his laser gun even though he couldn't shoot me through the containment capsule. "This had better be _good!_"

An idea had finally struck me. It was certainly risky, and even if it did work we might never get out alive, but it was worth a shot. "Look, you hate Earth, right?" I asked almost pointlessly, then hurried on without need of an answer. "So if this is your first huge, momentous attack against the Earth," I suggested slowly, so he could absorb every word, "wouldn't you get double points for irony if you forced an _Earthling_ to do it?" I looked around pointedly. "It seems you have a nice supply of them right here, why not use them?"

There was another shocked silence all around. Porky watched me in a strange way, as though he was trying to read my mind but afraid of what he'd find there. The commander stared in feigned indifference that was easily seen to be incredulity. Even the robots seemed taken aback. Only Cap. Dodgers wasn't paying attention, being too busy inspecting a hangnail.

Suddenly the commander laughed. "Irony! One of the planet's _own beings_ pulling the trigger!" he marveled wickedly, pacing before the capsules again. "Ingenious! And it took an Earthling to think of it!" He looked at me thoughtfully, though still bearing the evil look. Then he suggested in a very malicious, quiet voice, "I suppose you wouldn't be averse to doing it?"

YES! He had _taken the bait!_ It was all I could do to keep a nervous countenance, even with my insides raging in uncertainty. Soon enough the robots opened my capsule and let me out with my hands up, leading me at laserpoint over to the control panel where the commander was waiting. The Martian informed me coldly, hoisting his laser gun again, "Do _anything_ other than press _that_ button"—he indicated a large, green, triangle-shaped plasma key labeled "**Magnets off**"—"and not only will my Centurions des-_troy_ you, they will blast _both_ of your companions into 17,670,002 microatoms." At those words I glanced quickly over my shoulder, and I saw the robots opening both Cap. Dodgers's and Porky's capsules. The robots immediately poked trained lasers at both of my comrades, who hoisted their hands in the air just as quickly. Even though this was going much better than I'd expected, what with the robots opening all the capsules and all, I was still in horrible anxiety. If I failed, we _all_ died.

"Well?" the commander reminded me forcefully, and I felt the barrel of his weapon against my back. "PUSH THE BUTTON or I will DISINTEGRATE you!"

I swallowed my fears—well, most of them—and turned back to the control panel. The green button with the "**Magnets off**" label was right in front of me, but at the edge of my field of vision I noted the position of the lever controlling the strength of the magnetic field. It was currently at about half-power, the safest setting. Breathing hard, I ignored the mechanism completely and started to my task. I took in a deep breath and reached hesitantly for the button then, in a motion so fast even I could barely see it, I grabbed the magnet-lever and shoved it all the way up to "**Maximum**".

Even before the robots aiming at me could fire their weapons, the meteors began to crash directly into the ship. The magnetic pull of the commander's vehicle was now so strong that the space rocks that had previously just hung in midair about it were now as irresistibly attracted to it as they would have been to the Earth had I turned the field off. The ship began to shake violently with each impact, and I was afraid that one of the robots might be distressed enough to fire and hit one of us by sheer luck. But as I looked around wildly, I was glad to see that in the confusion Porky had leapt out of his capsule and over the guards, urging Cap. Dodgers to do the same.

"THIS WAY!" I yelled over the commotion, struggling desperately to stay standing upright. "ESCAPE PODS OVER HERE, CAP'N!"

"_NO!_" the commander cried in angry despair, but it was already too late. The ship was shaking so badly now that even moving was a hazard. Even so, I stumbled all the way to the nearest escape pod just after Cap. Dodgers and Porky had gotten inside. I heard as if from a great distance one of the robots report that the engine room had been hit and that the ship was about to blow up. But I wasn't listening. My only thoughts were to grab Cap. Dodgers's arm while he pulled me inside the escape pod. I closed the door as Cap. Dodgers gunned the engines and flew us out of there.

Seconds later, the entire Martian ship exploded. However, I was pretty positive that I saw another escape pod fly away in the opposite direction, so it seems like the commander survived. I was relieved. No matter _what_ he had been planning to do to us, I couldn't stand the thought of him getting blown to smithereens.

Once the wreckage was far behind us, Porky whooped. "You d-d-d-di-did it!" he cried, hugging me tightly in his joy. "You saved the Earth, Harry! I.Q. is going to be so pr-p-pr-pr-pro-pr—happy for you!"

Cap. Dodgers seemed calm and collected, like he'd known all the time that we'd get out of it successfully. "Well," he stated haughtily, preening his feathers, "he _did_ learn it from me, Porkbun_th_s."

I grinned. Trying desperately to take credit for what someone else had done.

There was no greater proof that Captain Dodgers was more proud of me than anyone else in the whole Protectorate.

As I write, my congratulatory medal for saving the Earth from destruction by meteors hangs well in the room I share with Porky. Several times since that occurence I have been offered a chance to be promoted to Captain, but each time I have politely turned it down. No matter how much the Protectorate needs someone like me commanding others, Captain Dodgers needs me saving him more. I.Q.'s words from our first meeting have haunted me to this day: "I can't have you running around without someone to watch you—or vice-versa."

And you know what?

I think getting drafted into the Protectorate was the best thing that ever happened to me.


End file.
